Arsonists
by Cella N
Summary: Her skin’s like those cold walls in Einstellsehn’s playground. GIOVANNI. NAOTO. In which there is inappropriate use of walls and floors. Also, a bed.


**A/N:** I blame **sharingank** for her awesome Giovanni at Poly, and I blame Miwa Shirou, because he made DOGS a potentially walking orgy. Someone was bound to write these two together. Additional notes and warnings are: A LOT OF SEX. A LOT OF SWEARING. GIOVANNI'S MIND IS A BAD BAD PLACE. And also, there seems to be some plot? OMG.

**Arsonists**  
_The most powerful weapon on earth is the human soul on fire. -- Ferdinand Foch_

Her skin's like those cold walls in Einstellsehn's _play ground_, all rough where it's been abused and smooth where it's been kept secret, with it's broken parts and its cracked parts, and aren't they _all_ cracked the fuck up there after all, and _fuck damn_, just like those walls, her skin looks so fucking good covered in _blood_. Her blood, not so often, but when it's the blood of others, when Naoto unleashes her fury on the enemies, she ends up more tainted than the little whores in their little whore-houses, and she looks so much like a damn DOG, herself, that he wants to fuck her, there and then.

He's telling himself he has time before he hands her over to Freuling, not that _she_ knows she's going to be handed over—no, all pretty little innocent Naoto thinks is that he's a suave gentleman who genuinely, _truly_, gives a fuck about her. (Which he might, but only to the extent of wanting to not let her die until he can see how that blood-covered skin looks _under_ him.) So he figures he's going to be generous about this, show her a good time before he hands her over to the slaughter, because Freuling wants her tired, and nothing tires a girl out like sex. Since she's going to die anyway tomorrow morning, he might as well give her a proper goodbye. Or something like it.

The location he picks is the wall next to the door of the hotel room he rented—a bit too expensive, even for his tastes, but if it'll get the princess to spread her legs, well—and he's impatient, yes, he's fucking impatient, because he's not that moron _Heine_, and _screw self-control_. He figures they're all animals, right? So animals eat, sleep, shit, fuck, fight, kill, die. Right now, he's particularly interested in fucking. Maybe dinner was interesting—who's he fuckin' kidding, the woman barely speaks enough to keep him away, but for some reason, her lips keep him interested—or maybe it wasn't, maybe he just wanted it to end, and then carefully, lovingly guide Naoto to their hotel room, where they'd sleep. Nothing more. Yeah, but screw being a gentleman. The girl had _something_ in her, that was for sure, because what sort of maiden grabs his hand and looks at him with those smouldering eyes—he's waxing poetics, _clearly_, he needs to get laid—that were just asking for it, rough. And the girl didn't have something _in_ her, but, well, he was there to change that.

They don't talk. He doesn't expect her to talk, it's not like she talks much during the day, so why would sex change anything? Besides, talk is overrated, and kissing her is better. He's never kissed his women before, because whores, eh, who knew where _that_ had been, but he kisses Naoto, because what sort of gentleman wouldn't? And he's a damn good actor, even though he actually kisses her because he wants to see _if_ she's smouldering enough to make him want to bite her fuckin' tongue out. Turns out she is, turns out she's one of those "I'm Silent Now But Totally A Devil In Bed (Or Against The Wall)", because the fucking _angel_ bites him. She bites _him_, the dog, ha ha, how fucked up is _that_, bet even the Madame would laugh at this. She bites his bottom lip, and yes, it's experimental, the girl's obviously still a virgin—for now—but that took guts, and he grins widely, forcing her to let go of his lip.

His mouth clamps on her shoulder—naked, oh thank you, slinky date dress—and there, he shows her how real biting, sexy biting is done. She moans, and he's hard, and he wishes Freuling didn't have to _kill_ her tomorrow, because he's always wanted a toy, and it's not like _Heine_'s gonna be this cooperative, right? He'd best make the best of it, then.

Right. Taking it slow.

First step, the dress needs to _go_. His teeth were itching to rip something to pieces, so he figures out the dress is as good a thing as any, and rip rip _riiiiip_, off it goes, no more dress, _hello, naked Naoto_. Against a wall. Fuck, he's behaving like a horny dog—ha ha, the irony—hands eagerly sliding up her skin, waist, sides, ribs, that _scar_ (that's gonna be re-opened in a few hours), her breasts in his hands. She arches, another soft moan, and lifts one leg up.

"Don't _do_ that, Nao~to~" he taunts, one hand following down the skin of her leg, his mouth fastened on her neck—the instinct's screaming _rip her, rip her to pieces_—his other hand pushing her against the wall. "I might lose control~" Yeah, like he hasn't already.

Second step, his _clothes_ need to go, too. So it's one, two, three movements—and shit, the minx, she helps him too, all eager hands and smouldering eyes—and he's naked. The dog in him wants to bend her over and fuck her senseless, and quite frankly, so does the man in him, but that can happen later. First time, he wants her legs wrapped around his waist, and to see her when she screams his name.

Third step, adopting the position. All too easy, because she's a born natural for this—fucking is like killing, if you're good at killing, you're good at fucking, and well, he's good at both, but so is she—and her hands are on his shoulder, her legs around his waist. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to ask if she's ready, but yeah, it's established that he's not a fucking gentleman. He'd like to say he at least takes it slow, but the damn girl grabs his hair and pulls his face towards her, and _oh, who gives a shit about slow_.

It's too fast, and it doesn't happen soon enough. Sex's always been a favourite thing of his, but this settles new records. The first time's too short, doesn't matter, easily forgettable. The second round, still against the wall, slower, his mouth against her neck, and she's making those "aah ahh haah" noises that drive him _mad_, which in turn makes all his thrusts hard, rough, slow, then faster, and faster, because the noises start to sound like "mmmh" and "more" and fuck, who's he to deny the lady what she wants? By the fourth time, her skin's not like the walls in the playground, no, it's slippery, because they're sweating, not that it matters, because she smells so good, and maybe sweat is better than blood, so he licks it. And because just her neck isn't enough anymore, he moves the party to the nearest flat surface—floor—and runs his tongue all over her skin. This is Naoto, a damned woman, not a maiden, do not weep for her when she dies, for her last night was a happy one.

He loses count after the first five, so it's some time near morning, and they've finally reached the bed he paid so much money for, and apparently miss Naoto likes to ride him. She still looks like a statue, only it's marble, and sweat, and pink, and those smouldering eyes, so he figures, yeah, she likes it. What kind of person wouldn't like sex? With him. Especially with him. There's some sort of territorial pride in this—he's the only one that's gonna have her, not stupid Heine and his fuckin' castrated dog, no way—and it shows in the array of bite marks on her skin. It's slower now, and he likes it slow too. Her hands are running up his chest, and fingers brush over his glasses. He's never taken them off for her, claimed he needed them for poor sight.

"I'd have liked to see your eyes," she says.

"Nothin' special about them, Naoto~, just regular eyes," he says, and thrusts up into her. Morning's near, and Freuling'll be here any minute, so this is the last. That's a pity, he rather liked the girl. She's all soft and curvy and hot, damn hot, and would've made a great toy. He likes how her hand move behind her back like a sultry little princess, it makes him grip her hips and speed things up a bit. Last round, comin' up, right before you die, honey. Closer, closer, closer, and _there_. Perfect.

Bliss.

Fuck, he's tired himself, so she's bound to be exhausted.

Or not. Because no tired girl lifts herself up with such grace and bends over him, eyes intense. "How long until she's here, Giovanni?" she asks. Fucking. Funny. Figure that out, he never told her his _name_.

"What are you t—" And then there's her sword, through his stomach. The _bitch_. And there's her sword again—when the _fuck_ did she reach for it, for fuck's sake—through one lung. The other lung. And he guesses she stabs his heart clean through in some sort of symbolic 'I Had Fun Letting You Fuck Me Senseless'. "Bitch," he sputters out, blood gurgling from his mouth. Oh, the tables have turned, and if he wasn't half unconscious at the blood-loss already, he'd _rip her to pieces_. "Bitch, I won't _die_--" he snarls, and growls at her when the sword runs through his shoulder. "—but _you_ will." If not at Freuling's hands, at his, for sure.

"I'm not afraid of death, or you," she says, pulling the sword out—what do you fucking know, she stabbed him as many times as he fucked her, ha ha—and cleaning it. "But I have one thing I must do before I die." The way she looks at him doesn't say anything, no smouldering looks, no passion, just that statuesque expression of someone ready for battle. Even if she's naked and covered in bitemarks. And blood. Oh, his blood on her skin looks _fucking great_.

If she survives today, he'll fuck her again and _then_ rip her to pieces. Actually, make that fuck her for a few days, since the girl has stamina, otherwise she wouldn't leave the room so perfectly calm, so perfectly ready for that fight to come.

"Bitch…" How poetic, he loses consciousness with her as his last thought. Well, this'll win him a demerit, he's sure. Pity she'll die. She'd have made a _damn_ good pet.


End file.
